


The Phantom of the Theatre

by RuGrimm



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuGrimm/pseuds/RuGrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the world of the Phantom of the Opera, our favorite Kuroshitsuji characters are put into the mix. Ciel Phantomhive has been sent to investigate the strange tale of the Silver Ghost haunting the Savoy Theatre in London, and young Grell Sutcliff is vying for his chance to be the next greatest actress in England while he poses as a young maiden. The day Ciel arrives as the new theatre manager, everything turns upside down, and a trail of tears and hearts starts to form. Torn between a childhood crush and her closest mentor and friend, will our Grell or even the theatre ever be the same?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom of the Theatre

An old man stared out from the passenger seat in the back of an old-styled automobile. It clanked and clattered and clicked down the busy, bustling streets of London that cool, autumn evening. Through dark, decrepit eyes and the weighed-down wrinkles of his face, he could imagine his youth in the reflectoin of the window. And in those eyes there was nothing but sadness and longing for the past. His mind conjured up that of a beautiful man's reflection next to his own--a man with brilliant red hair and a flaming personality.

A silver moustache lined with white ran over the old man's upper lip and around his mouth. Upon his head sat an old top hat, leaning slightly to the right and seemingly read to fall apart with its age at any moment--just like its owner.

He sniffled slightly from the cold that was likely creeping up on him with this weather, and his throat was miracullously dry. To preserve his voice, a private household doctor had ordered his servant to do all the bidding for him today at the local auction in a nearby, rebuilt theater: The Savoy Theatre. Of course, this theater was nothing but a replica. The real building had burnt down years before.

As the car drew to a stop, the old man watched as two of his servants hopped out of the car. From where he sat, he could see the symbol of his household on the door, marking him as nobility to all those who saw. He didn't care for it much nowadays, all he was waiting for now was to rejoin those he loved yet lost in another world. Whether it was heaven or hell, the old man didn't care.

Door opening, the old man held tightly onto its handle, and hoisted himself onto his shaky feet. There in front of him, no more than a good three feet, was his wheelchair he was now confined to for the most part. To him, it was his mobile prison. Regardless, he struggled to walk toward it, and he could feel the firm hand of his younger servant who would help him with his bidding today. When he had finally sat down, the younger servant propped his feet in the little bucket and lifted it so that it wouldn't drag on the cobblestone ground.

The moment that the old man was situated, the older servant got back into the car to drive it to a safe place to park, and the younger wheeled him to the grand entrance of a unique theater hall. Above that entrance was a banner that read: "Public Auction Today" and above that was the translation to French.

The old man had heard rumors that most of the attendents today would be from France as the current owner of this theatre house was from Paris. That hadn't truly bothered him in any way as long as he could achieve what he had traveled from his reclusive mansion in the country.

A loud, booming voice could be heard as he approached the great hall.

"Sold. Another sir? Thank you. Lot number six-six-three: a poster from this theatre's production of Richard III. Do I have ten pounds? Five then? Six. Seven. Eight. Eight once. Eight twice. Sold to that kind mossieur. Thank you very much, gentleman."

The gavel was nothing but a dull crack in the old man's ears as he approached the small gathering of those bidding today. There was likely no more than eight or ten, not including the French auctioneer and his two helpers.

The auctioneer started again the moment that the old man had come to a halt. "Lot six-six-four: a wooden pistol and three human skulls from the 1831 production of A Tale of Mystery. Ten pounds? Thank you. Ten still..."

His words seemed to grow distant as the old man's attention was drawn from his gloved hands. He'd only come here, after all, for one purpose. However, the old man had the feeling that he was being watched, and as his old eyes peered up to gaze at the person who was staring at him, his heart nearly froze. Though age too had affected the once young man, he could still make out those green eyes and a hint of blonde in that silvery hair. There sat a fedora on his head, and he wore a nice suit. Glasses sat perched on his nose, nearly goggle-like in nature and sticking out like a sore thumb on his aged countenance.

They stared at each other, speechless for many moments in what seemed to be a mutual understanding. Despite the years, they knew each other without a doubt.

And then it was broken by the sound of a gavel that signaled the end of another sale.

"Lot six-six-five: an old musical box in the shape of a barrel organ; attached is the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the symbols. It was discovered in the vaults of this theatre. Still in working order, ladies and gentleman. Showing here..."

One of the assitants of the auctioneer raised his hand to gently turn the crank of the old music box, and sure enough, it played a low, mellow tune as the symbols of the monkey slowly came together and then apart. The old man's grip on his other hand tighhtened a little more as he tensed at that tune, but he knew that had to be it. This is what he came for; he was sure of it.

"May I commence at...fifteen pounds? Fifteen, thank you."

Determined to get what he came for-the old man motioned to his servant who, in return, raised his hand to bid for the frail old man he called Master. Money was no object for the nobleman. If he had to, he'd sell his mansion and his title and pay a billion pounds for this one little music box. If he couldn't get it, he may as well kill himself and set the family name up in a blaze.

"Thank you, gentleman. Oh? Mr. Knox, twenty-five. That you, kind sir. We're at twenty-five. Do I have a thirty?"

The old man shot Mr. Knox a cold glare. He knew that Knox knew he wanted it. Then again, what if Mr. Knox wanted it for the same reason? After all, they'd both known 'him' very closely. No. This was his mission, and his alone. He gripped his servants arm and gave him a small nod, motioning for another bid.

"Thirty. And thirty-five?"

The auctioneer glanced at Mr. Knox expectantly who gave a small smirk and shook his head in a modest defeat. However, before he had backed down from the bidding, he had given the old man a small, understanding look as if he were pitying the nobleman. Mr. Knox then took a small step back, his hands well inside the pockets of his trousers as his head tilted down a little toward his signifying white oxfords to hide his still vibrant green eyes beneath the brim of his fedora.

"Thirty pounds then. Thirty once. Thirty twice," the gavel beat on the auctioneer's podium, "sold for thirty pounds to the Viscount de Spears. Thank you, sir."

Slowly, the auctioneer's helper (or one of them), came down the stairs of the stage to gently hand the viscount his monkey music box. Trembling, frail hands took it from the other's, and he carefully inspected the music box of its every detail to make sure that this was truly the real thing. A finger gently brushed over the wrinkles in the moneky's face, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. This was it. It had to be. It was so perfect.

It was a collecter's piece, indeed. Every detail was exactly how 'he' had said. And Viscount de Spears wondered whether or not this old music box would still play even when they were all dead.

His throat began to choke up with memories, and that vibrant hair of red flashed through his mind again as he gazed solemnly at this antique in his hands. Yet, the melancholy thoughts swirling in the sea of memories were interrupted by the sound of the auctioneer's voice again.

"Lot six-six-six, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall, the strange affair of the Phantom of the Theatre-a mystery never fully explained. We're told, ladies and gentleman, that this is the very chandlier that figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it, and rewired parts of it for the new, electric light. Perhaps, we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination." The auctioneer looked up at his helpers, nodding them to go on with a small smile though the Viscount and Mr. Knox stared in horror as the cover atop a giant heap was thrown aside to reveal that of a beautiful chandelier.

The lights suddenly flickered on from it, the Viscount's eyees wide in his wrinkled skull as it was hoisted from the wooden stage floor and up toward the grand ceiling. Could it really be? Those memories simply flooded back, and he found himself inside of those memories, sitting in this very theater nearly sixty years ago.

It was opening night of a grand new performance.

The beginning of this twisted tale.

The Phantom of the Theatre.


End file.
